Under One Banner: Rise

I: Little Brother

May 5th, 2099 22:43

Empty. The damned glass was empty. Again. It always happened
that way. I only ever mean to take a few sips, but before I know it, I've had about 8 glasses. Same routine, every damned time. Wake up, eat, wash up, get dressed, go to work, come home, go to the bar, get drunk, go home, repeat. Every day.

I figured that this particular empty glass was a testament to the fact that I'd had enough beer for one night. I spun around on the bar stool, and rubbed my weary eyes. The alcohol was finally starting to take it's toll. I stumbled off the stool toward the door, just as the mahogany walls began to spin.

I shuffled across the carpet, and knocked into something big and burly.

"Watch yer step."

I looked up to see a bald man sporting a leather jacket and a bushy brown mustache. ​The cliche is strong in this one,​I thought. I muttered an apology and kept moving toward the door after receiving what I deemed to be a grunt of approval.

Once outside, I shivered a tad at the cool air, realizing I had left my damned hoodie in the bar. Turning on my heel, I grabbed the gleaming knob. Suddenly, the door burst open, catching me full in the face. I stumbled back, wincing in pain, and looked up to see Cliche Guy.

"You again, eh?" He practically breathed the words, and I could smell the liquor that laced his breath. His mustache gleamed with the shine of a spilled drink, and his muscles bulged with anticipation.
He thumped my forehead, attempting to frustrate me.

"Ya like bumping into people, eh punk?" Cliche Guy said, raising his voice.

He was trying to gather attention, and it was beginning to work. People slowly started trickling out of the bar, drunk and itching to see a fight.

Murmurs from the growing crowd. Occasional shouts of "Fight!", and "Ya gonna let him talk to you like that?". It didn't seem like I'd leave this situation without giving them some entertainment, but I tried nonetheless. Brushing past Cliche guy, I made my way back into the bar and retrieved my black hoodie. I put it on and exited the bar once again.

This time, I could not simply walk away. As soon as I pulled open the door, Cliche Guy stared down at me, a vicious grin on his face. He gripped me up by the hoodie and thrust me against the wall on the inside of the bar.

Bad move number one.

By now, my drunkenness had shaken off, and I was fully aware of what was going on. The only worker inside was a bartender, who turned a blind eye, as usual. The patrons were attempting to leave the bar.

He cocked one of his fists back, with a smile on his lips.

Bad move number two.

"I'll teach ya to knock into people, ya little bitch!"

Three strikes, you're out.

He shoved his fist toward my face, and I shrunk under it. Grabbing his arm, I moved behind him and locked his arm behind his back in a painful position. I spun him around and gave him a nasty left hook to the jaw. He was dazed, but not down.

"Damn, that looked like it hurt a bit" I chided. Cliche Guy was not amused.

"Get 'im boys!" He bellowed, clutching his jaw.

Oh, fuckin' hell.

His "boys" looked like they benched about 300 pounds each, and one of them obviously skipped leg day. He was practically trampled as they pushed past each other, itching for a shot at me.

"Lemme at 'im!"

"I'll gut 'im like a fish!"

"I'll have him swim with the fishes!"

Sounds pleasant.

I contemplated calling my brother, but he was most likely on his way to pick me up. You could be shot for driving drunk these days. That was not a risk I wanted to take.

All at once, his lackeys began to rush me. The first one came at me with a bull rush move, trying to hit me with a shoulder check. All I had to do was sidestep it and stick my foot out to send him hurtling to the floor.

The last two ran toward me, and the first threw a right hook that I deflected, sweeping my leg under him. The final guy looked at his friends on the ground, and then looked at me.

"What in the fuck did I get myself into this time?" he muttered. Then he ran and tried to drop kick me, which only got him caught in the air and thrown into the wall.

I swiped the sweat from my brow and looked over the scene. Cliche Guy was staring at me in shock, rubbing his jaw.

"Yer truly a crazy mothafucka, ain't ya?" he huffed. "Guess I'll have to put ya down myself." I sighed to myself. Another clumsy idiot.

This should be easy.

He walked over to me and put up his set. Unlike his buddies, he was going to take this nice and slow. I followed suit.

We paced around each other for a good amount of time before he took a swing. Cliche Guy tossed a quick jab my way, and I sidestepped it quickly, keeping my eyes on his hands.

I decided to go on the offensive and struck out with a right hook that was aimed at his rib cage. It hit, but Cliche didn't even wince. Instead, he grasped my arm and pulled me in for a clothesline. I ducked under his arm once again, but this time took his elbow to the back of my head.

I stumbled forward, but regained my balance almost immediately. Just in time too, because Cliche Guy threw another punch my way. I countered it with a block and threw one of my one, which was also blocked.

Cliche took advantage of the situation and, grabbing my arms, slammed his head into mine. I crumpled to the floor, cradling my forehead. My vision began to fade in and out as I struggled to stay conscious.

I felt him lift me from the floor and shove into the wall. This was it. This was how I died. A goddamned bar fight. And all alone, too.

I guess misery ​doesn't ​love company.

One hand moved away from my collar, and I knew Cliche was about to strike the finishing blow. Then, I heard a weird sound. Metal. It was a gun cocking.

"Drop my little brother, or I'll drop you."